


Coming Home to You

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Fest Piece, Forgiveness, Inspired by Sweet Home Alabama, Starting Over, past relationship, reconnection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: After her tumultuous teen years, Hermione finally has she wanted: a quiet, uneventful life as a bookshop owner. But when her Muggle boyfriend proposes, she is forced to go back to confront her past...And her estranged husband, who refuses to sign their divorce papers.Written for Harmony at the Movies Fest 2019.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HarmonyAtTheMovies](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HarmonyAtTheMovies) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Sweet Home Alabama (2002)
> 
> Thanks to the admins of Harmony & Co for putting this fun fest together. A special thanks to AlexandraO, who has done a fantastic job over the last few months contacting us flighty writers and making sure we are on track to get our projects done!

Hermione pulled the key from the ignition, silencing the low rumble of the car engine. All was dark save for the dashboard, where the numbers 9:44 glowed beside the fuel gauge. An unusually late time for a bookshop owner to come home, but there was the till to be counted, display to be made, and inventory to be done. There were endless tasks in running a business, especially if one was also that business' sole employee.

Andrew understood. His list of responsibilities was no better, being the only physician in Berret—a village with a population of roughly three hundred people, most of whom were already schoolchildren during Churchill's first stint as Prime Minister. Despite Andrew's busy days at his clinic in the town square, he always managed to make it home by early evening to prepare dinner. Every night when she arrived home, she would be greeted with the mouthwatering scents of meaty stews or fruit pies or freshly baked loaves of bread.

Every night except, it seemed, for tonight. Their one-bedroom cottage sat under the half-moon with no signs of life. There were no movements behind the gingham curtains of the kitchen window. Near the gate, Andrew's sedan was parked, the ground underneath dry despite the flash of rain that occurred a quarter past.

She approached the house quietly. Andrew must have had a tiring day. Cold weather was approaching, and the brisk winds acted as a signal for the whole of Berret to toddle to the clinic en masse with various ailments.

Gently, Hermione opened the front door, taking off her shoes to avoid clattering on the wooden floor. She stepped inside—but instead of the cold, bare floor that she was expecting, her soles touched what felt like a bed of crushed velvet.

The lights flickered on. Hermione gasped, a heavy fragrance of roses hitting her nose just as she registered the carpet of red petals. It covered every inch of the cozy living room floor, and in the middle, Andrew stood—but only for a moment. With a nervous smile, he lowered to one knee.

A cold prickle shivered down the back of her neck. "Andrew?" she whispered. 

His smile grew wider as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black box.

Her heart plummeted. "What are you doing?" she asked dully.

Andrew chuckled. "You know," he said, "it would probably be easier for the both of us if you come a bit closer."

"Oh." She glanced at her hand, knuckles blanched around the doorknob. "Oh," she mumbled again before letting go and cautiously approached him.

He cleared his throat. "I know that we haven't talked about it, but this has been a long time coming." He lifted the lid of the small box, revealing a square-cut diamond on a dainty silver ring. "Hermione Potter, will you marry me?"

* * *

Leaves crunched under her sensible boots. The sound bounced off the high walls of Grimmauld Place as she strode down the pavement. Hermione glanced at the iron numbers next to the doors as she passed them by.

Number 9...

Number 10...

11...

13.

She paused, waiting for the magic to recognize her and reveal the shadowed stoop of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

After an uneventful moment, Hermione crossed her arms and tapped her toes impatiently. "Harry, it's me," she projected into the sliver of space between the buildings. "Open up."

Her watch ticked several seconds. Still, Number 12 failed to appear. With an irritated growl, Hermione threw her hands in the air, pacing back and forth between the numbers 11 and 13. The less rational part of her mind wondered if perhaps Harry had installed a second layer of magical protection on the property. Something akin to the magic that built the Room of Requirement, in which one had to know exactly what they were looking for in order for it to come to existence. 

She willed the doorstep to materialize, imagining it as she had last seen it a decade ago—the black door beaten and weathered but adorned with a homely wreath of spring blossoms. 

Flowers that Harry had brought home from the shop around the corner. A peace offering after a long fight.

Her right hand wrapped around her left ring finger, the square stone pressing hard against the pad of her thumb.

That wreath and those flowers were long dead, withered and turned to dust. 

Briefly, she wondered if Harry ever replaced them.

She would never know, of course, if his damned magic never unveiled the door.

Hermione halted mid-march and turned on her heel, glaring at the space where Number 12 Grimmauld Place should have been. She perched her fists on her hips, the engagement ring digging into her skin through her light jumper. "Harry Potter," she yelled. "Get your arse down here and give me a divorce!"

* * *

She screamed on the street for a solid five minutes, not stopping until the other residents of Grimmauld Place started screaming back, threatening to call the police. 

Defeated, Hermione drove back home. Either Harry wasn't inside the house at all—or he was watching her yell into the still, autumn air like a fool. Either way, she needed a different plan of action.

She arrived at the cottage she shared with her fiance. Andrew would be at the clinic for several hours more, but she made her way through the empty cottage quietly. Guilt and a touch of nervousness bubbled in her chest.

Neither had to do with her fiance nor her estranged husband.

Hermione crossed the bedroom and opened the closet door. She pushed aside the dresses she had bought years ago—some with flouncy skirts, others with slinky fabric that hugged her curves in ways that would have made her blush, had she ever the occasion to wear them. Of course, such occasions never came to Berret. The most lively event of the year was the Christmas Eve service, filled with somber prayers and shaky warblings to choral music.

With a grunt, she moved the dusty boxes from the corner of the closet. She kneeled, her fingertips feeling around the floorboard for the telltale notch. When she found it, she dug into the crevice until a piece of wood popped off the floor.

Her heart thudded in her ears as she reached into the small space. Her fingers curled around a smooth handle. 

With a deep breath, she pulled her wand out from its hiding place.

The intricate vines along the shaft had collected dust; other than that, it looked the same as it did years ago when she had buried it beneath her floorboard, vowing to never use it again. Now that it was back in her hand, she wondered how she had had the strength and audacity to do such a thing.

Magic sizzled under her skin, thrumming from her fingertips to the wand like a spark between electrodes. It awoke something inside her, something as native to her being as her mind and her soul.

She could also feel—as if it had spoken directly to her—that her wand was less than enthused at their reunion. 

It reminded her of the day she returned to the Burrow after the arduous battle at Hogwarts. Through the shock and exhaustion, all she had wanted to do was find her familiar and bury her face in his soft, orange fur. 

She saw Crookshanks sitting like a statue on a post along the Weasleys' wooden fence. Hermione ran to him, eager to hold him in her arms—but, as she approached, he made no move. There was recognition in those keen eyes—a familiar can always recognize its witch—but, more so, his golden-brown eyes were filled with caution and distrust. Hermione did not make it within ten feet of Crookshanks before he bolted away.

It took almost a week before he deemed her worthy enough to be in the same room for any length of time, and it was nearly a month afterward before he casually brushed up against her leg. 

Hermione’s heart sank at the broken trust between her and her wand, which had, in various ways, been the most important object in her life. "I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, stroking the length of her wand with the tips of her fingers like she used to stroke Crookshanks' thick fur. "I'm here. I'm here."

* * *

Hermione was not surprised that the Leaky Cauldron remained unchanged in all these years. The furnishings were still well-worn and shabby in a charming way. The lighting was still gloomy no matter the weather, and the floors were forever sticky with a mystery substance, despite the animated mop hard at work.

Patrons were scattered throughout the dining area, and all of them wordlessly stared at her as she walked through the pub. That, too, remained the same, and it was just as unwelcome now as it was then.

At the bar, laughter rang out. A pretty, stout woman with blonde curls was having a lively conversation with an older gentleman sitting at the counter.

"Hannah!" Hermione waved a hand, excited to see a familiar face.

Hannah turned at the sound of her name. When she spotted Hermione, her expression froze; and, in the blink of an eye, her jovial smile slid off her face. Slowly, she turned her back to Hermione, grabbing a raggedy cloth and wiping down an already clean section of the bar.

Hermione lowered her hand, her heart sinking to the ground. She rushed to the exit as fast as she could without making it seem like she was running.

She and Hannah were never close, but the former Hufflepuff had always been friendly. She had a single mission during this outing to the magical part of London, but each step on the cobbled path of Diagon Alley felt heavier than the last. If Hannah Abbott, a mere acquaintance, treated her with such disdain, then surely...

As she debated in her head, her feet continued to take her along the street. Before she knew it, she was standing before a bright display of toys and gadgets, three large W's looming above her head. She chewed on her lip as she summoned what was left of her Gryffindor courage.

"I should have been in Ravenclaw," she muttered as she snatched the handle and threw the door open.

To her relief, the counter was unmanned. She deviated to the bank of shelves on the other side of the shop, practicing her speech under her breath. "Hello, Ronald. Will you kindly tell me where in Avalon my dear husband is so I can serve him divorce papers?" She rounded the corner, her gaze wandering a shelf of violet boxes. "Hello, Ronald. Will you kindly tell me where in Avalon—"

"Hermione?"

She halted; immediately, her stomach knotted. Gradually, she turned her head, glancing over her shoulder.

At the end of the aisle, Ron Weasley gaped at her, a box of fireworks and sparklers forgotten in his arms. He was taller than she remembered, but perhaps that was due to the added bulk to his frame. Once gangly, his muscles seemed to have caught up, and now he stood there, looking healthy, even handsome, if not for his dumbfounded expression.

"Hi, Ron," Hermione said weakly. She raised her hand, fluttering her fingers like an idiot.

Ron's lips pressed into a thin line. For one mortifying second, Hermione thought he would turn his back on her just like Hannah did.

But the box in his arms dropped to the floor with a thud, and in five long strides, they were face-to-face. He wrapped her in an embrace, arms and all, lifting her off the ground as he buried his face on her shoulder. "You're back," he said, his words muffled in her jumper.

Despite finding it hard to breathe, Hermione laughed. "It's good to see you, too." She patted his back—or what she could reach of it with her upper arms pinned at her sides. "Although it would be nicer if I didn't faint from suffocation."

After another tight squeeze, he relented, putting her down gently and then holding her at arm's length. His eyes were watery as he gazed at her in wonder. "Are you hungry?" 

* * *

"That's a tall order," Ron said. He pinched another piece of maki between his chopsticks and stuffed it in his mouth.

"Is it really?" Hermione asked, incredulous. "It's been ten years since I left, for Merlin's sake! Do you really think he'll deny me a divorce?"

Ron shrugged, popping in another slice of the sushi roll. "Are you sure you don't want to try this? It's really good."

"Sure." She grabbed a piece from his plate and sampled his food. "Wow, that's delicious," she said as she chewed. "Who'd have thought Diagon Alley would be home to an amazing sushi bar?"

"Right? You should have seen when it first opened a few years ago. The lines for lunch were so long, you could pick up a new broom at Quality Quidditch Supplies while you waited for a table to open up."

She chuckled wryly. "A lot has changed since I've been gone."

He paused, eyeing her curiously. "Yeah." He reached across the table, placing a warm hand on hers. "And no. Mum and Dad are still at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur are still at Shell Cottage. Charlie's in Argentina now, but he's still working with dragons. Percy's definitely still a prat."

"And you're still living the bachelor life."

"You bet your wand, I am." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "No sense in keeping all this,"—he fanned his fingers down his torso—"to just one woman. I've dated loads over the years. The only other bloke who's seen more women than me is Ha—" He coughed, cupping his mouth as he averted his eyes away from her. His cheeks flushed a bright red.

She placed her chopsticks down and folded her hands on her lap. "Oh, we're both adults." She tried for nonchalance, ignoring the souring of her stomach. "I'm engaged to another man. I'm not going to throw a fit because Harry has been seeing other women."

Ron took a long sip of water before speaking again. "He hasn't— I mean, he has but—" He cleared his throat. "Anyway. George has been good. And Ginny's been busy with the kids— Oh!" He leaned forward, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "The kids! We're having a birthday party for them at the Burrow tomorrow. You should come!"

She scrunched her nose.

He rolled his eyes at her. "It will be fine. It's just going to be family, and they'll be happy to see you."

She raised her eyebrows.

"And Harry will be there, too." He leaned back like a confident poker player with a winning hand. "You can speak to him there, and he'll have to listen. Or, at least, be civil." He snorted, picking up another piece of sushi.

She followed suit. "Are you sure?" she asked before savoring a piece of wild salmon nigiri. 

"He'll have to be," Ron said around a ball of rice in his mouth, "or Mum will have his hide, Minister for Magic or not."

Hermione choked. "He's the _what_?"


	2. Chapter 2

She told Andrew that she had been called away by family due to an emergency and would be gone through the weekend. It only felt like a half a lie; even after all the time and distance, the Weasleys still felt like her family. When Andrew kissed her goodbye that morning, she only felt a twinge of guilt.

Even _that_ was forgotten when she Apparated to the Burrow, gazing at the impossible building for the first time in a decade. A flood of memories threatened to overtake her; but the front door squeaked open, and Molly Weasley hopped out, waving excitedly. "Hermione!"

"Mrs. Weasley!" She rushed to towards the house and was quickly engulfed in a warm hug that made her feel twelve years old again.

"Oh, hush! Have you forgotten? It's 'Molly'." She held Hermione out at arms' length, eyes doing a quick scan like how a mother bear would look over her young cub. Satisfied that she hadn't seen any evidence of injury or ill health, she placed a hand on Hermione's cheek and gave it a gentle pinch. "Pretty as ever. Have you eaten? Everyone's here but George and little Freddie, but they're always late." 

Molly pulled Hermione inside the house. A wall of noise hit her as soon as she entered the living room. Three identical boys ran circles around her before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Boys!" Molly yelled. "Be careful you don't knock over your cake!" She hustled after them, and Hermione rushed to keep pace.

"Oy! Hermione!" Charlie swept her into a hug as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. She was quickly handed off to Bill and Fleur, the former giving her shoulder a brotherly pat and the latter kissing her cheeks. They, too, handed her down to an eager pair of arms.

"Oooh!" Despite not having been a professional athlete for years, Ginny's arms were still strong. "I missed you so much!"

"I've missed you, too, Ginny."

After another squeeze, Ginny let her go, only to give her arm a playful, albeit stinging, slap. "Why the fuck did you stay away for so long?"

"Language!" Molly and a young boy at Ginny's side yelled at the same time.

Ginny rolled her eyes, which were bright with laughter and mischief. 

Hermione indicated to the young boy, who had Ginny's copper-hued eyes. "Is he your son?"

"One of them," Ginny replied before turning to the open kitchen window. "Boys! Dean! Come inside, and say hello!"

The three identical boys continued to chase each other, shrieking and bellowing as they ran back inside, and they were soon followed by Dean Thomas, who was ushering a different set of identical boys seemingly against their will. Dean ushered the children in the general direction towards their mother with varying degrees of success. He gave up soon after, giving Hermione a sheepish grin and a friendly wave.

Ginny shrugged. "Close enough." She pointed to the identical boys at Dean's side, who were fussing to go back out. "Those are Michael and Matthew, six years old." She waved her arm towards the flurry of boys wreaking havoc around the dining table. "William, Wilson, and Winston. Four years old. They'll calm down as they get older. I hope." She placed a hand on the shoulder of the young boy at her side. "And this is Ben, my eldest. Eight years old, going on forty-five."

Ben held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Hermione took it, suppressing her laughter. "The pleasure is mine."

Ginny leaned towards her ear. "His favorite uncle is Percy. I don't know where I went wrong."

"I heard that," Ben said, pushing a pair of rectangular glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Ginny glanced at Hermione and said from the side of her mouth, "Fake glasses."

Ben threw his head back and gave a theatrical sigh, stomping away to, presumably, have a more civilized conversation with his favorite uncle.

Hermione chuckled under her breath. "He's great."

A gentle smile bloomed on Ginny's lips. "Yeah." She gazed after her sons. "They all are." No sooner had she said so that one of the triplets knocked over a wooden bowl of greens off the table. Ginny moaned. "Merlin's pants, your grandmother is going yell my ear off if you three don't behave!" She rushed towards the three boys before they created more mess.

"Uh— Ron?" Hermione called after her.

"In the back!" Ginny yelled over her shoulder.

Hermione left the frazzled mother in search of her best friend. She followed the footpath around the house until she found the shed. Thinking Ron might be inside putting away Quidditch gear, she stepped in. There was no one inside the shed, but just as she was about to step out, a low grumble of male voices came nearer. She froze as she registered to whom one particular voice belonged.

"—can't believe you invited her."

Hermione's heart raced.

"'f course, I invited her," Ron replied. "Doesn't matter how long she's been gone, she's still Hermione."

"Yes. 'Still' Hermione. The same Hermione who left and didn't give any of us a second thought."

Ron scoffed.

"No, don't wave your hand like it didn't matter to you, Ron. I know it did. I know it hurt you as much as it hurt the rest of us when she abandoned us."

Hermione's heart twisted with guilt.

"And I know you're in there, Hermione."

She gasped audibly, her hand flying to her lips.

"I know you can hear me. Come on out."

Briefly, she closed her eyes and took a bolstering breath. Then, she stepped outside to confront her husband.

* * *

His leather jacket was not the first thing she noticed. It was a striking piece, to be sure; much more suitable to someone like Charlie Weasley, who wrestled with fire-breathing dragons for a living. It wasn't to say that Harry couldn't pull it off. The jacket hugged his wide shoulders, tapering at his trim waist. It gave him a roguish air, something that she had only glimpsed during their months on the run.

His beard, too, was quite striking. A half-inch too long to be considered appropriate for a man in public office, but a hair's breadth too short to be qualified as wild. It gave him an air controlled ruggedness, but it, too, was not the first thing she noticed.

The first thing she noticed were his eyes, as distant and cold as polar ice caps. She had only ever seen them like so when he confronted Voldemort and his Death Eaters; never had they been trained on _her_ in that way, and for the first time, she could appreciate how his opponents could feel a sliver of apprehension knife down their spine as they stared into his eyes.

"How did you know I was in there?" she asked.

He waved a hand carelessly in her direction. "After all these years, you're still using the same perfume."

Instinctively, she grabbed the ends of her curls, which she now kept long enough to skim the small of her waist. She always thought the scent of her shampoo was subtle; no one had ever commented on the fragrance of apple and honey except Harry.

A long-forgotten memory surfaced in her mind, of a roughened voice rumbling in her ear about how enticing she smelled.

Heat flushed at her neck, and she stamped down the memory before the blush reached her cheeks.

Ron cleared his throat. "I need to—" He jutted his thumb toward the house. "I should do— Argh." He shook his head dismissively, leaving her and Harry staring after him.

After a minute, she turned to him. "So. How are y—"

"You want a divorce," he clipped.

The word "yes" got stuck in her throat. She pressed her lips together and nodded.

He stared at her for a moment longer, his face an unreadable mask. "No," he said, and then turned on his heel and stomped away.

"Wait a minute— What—" Hermione ran after him. "Harry!"

He continued on his way, completely ignoring her.

She grabbed him by the elbow, turning him to face her. "Harry Potter, you just wait a minute—"

"Do you really think you can just come in here after all this time and demand something of me?" He leaned forward, a cold fire burning behind his eyes. "Ten years, Hermione. Ten _bloody_ years and not a single Owl. Not a word. Not even a whisper in the wind. And then you come waltzing back in here and expect me to do whatever you want?" He thrust his arms out of her grasp. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Her lips parted, the list of reasons for her departure at the tip of her tongue, where they had been waiting since the day she left him—

A window creaked open, and Molly's head popped through. Her gaze switched between them, a concern deepening the wrinkle between her brows. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," Hermione said.

"No," Harry chimed at the same time.

A rigid smile plastered on Molly's face. "Why don't you both come inside? We're about to light the candles on the cake."

"Molly—" Harry raised his hands in protest.

Molly's expression hardened, a look that had been perfectly honed over the years. "Come inside so my grandchildren can make a wish and blow out their candles, Harry Potter."

Despite his earlier bravado, Harry deflated. "Yes, Molly."

Molly's gaze shifted to Hermione. "You, too, dear," she said before shutting the window.

With an irritated sigh and a brief, cold glance at Hermione, Harry huffed to the house. Hermione followed a few seconds behind.

For the rest of the afternoon, Harry did not turn his cold gaze to her, and she did not know whether to be relieved or not.

* * *

  


"Thank you for letting me stay here," Hermione said. "It's very kind of you."

Minerva McGonagall waved her away, pouring more tea for herself. "It's no trouble. I've had very little occasion to use this house ever since I became Headmistress. I'm glad there is someone who can make use of it."

"It's a beautiful home," Hermione murmured as she glanced around the parlor. It was plainly decorated, and everything in the room had a functional purpose aside from being decorative. Each seating had just enough throw pillows to be comfortable and not enough to be in the way. The mantle above the fireplace held an understated pewter bowl to hold the Floo powder. The paintings depicted important historical figures in their acts of glory as to serve an educational purpose. 

Minerva nodded. "It's been with my family for four generations." She sipped her tea as she gazed around sharply. "It's just too bad that will all end with me."

Hermione coughed politely, not knowing what to say.

Minerva trained her keen gaze on her. "Don't misunderstand me, Hermione. I have no regrets. Merlin knows you children kept me more than busy."

Hermione laughed quietly into her cup. "I'm sure my class in particular. Between Ron and Harry—" She faltered, covering her misstep by taking a sip of her tea.

Minerva let the moment settle before asking, "Have you spoken to Mr. Potter?"

She pressed her lips together, nodding tersely.

Minerva hummed noncommittally.

Hermione looked up at her. "Did he ever—" Again, her jaws clamped shut.

Her old professor quirked a thin eyebrow.

She sighed, giving into her curiosity. "Did he ever come around asking about me?" She chuckled quietly at her own silliness. "I just... I wondered, in those early days, if he ever looked for me. If he ever figured out that I was under a Fidelius charm for those first few years. Or that you were my Secret Keeper." She shook her head at her nonsense.

Minerva stared at her, the sharpness in her gaze never faltering. She set her cup and saucer down on the table. "Mr. Potter has always been clever." Her lips curved into a smile. "Not as clever as you, but clever enough."

"So he came to you?"

Minerva nodded. "And asked some rather pointed questions."

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"What I could not answer, I did not." She laced her fingers together and placed them over her knee. "But the ones I could answer, I did."

Hermione bit down the feeling of betrayal bubbling in her chest.

"According to the gossip at the time—and you know there is never a shortage of those in Hogsmeade—Mr. Potter tore through the country interrogating friends and acquaintances alike, trying to find out where you were. He had it in his head that you were in danger—out of the safety of his protection, where Death Eaters and their sympathizers could harm you."

Hermione snorted.

"He even used his connections as an Auror to search for you. He stopped doing his actual work and made it his job to locate you to make sure you were safe. He almost lost his job, if not for Kingsley's intervention."

Quickly, she sobered up.

"So when Mr. Potter finally came to me with his suspicions that I knew of your location," Minerva said, "I told him what I could. That no matter where you were, you were safe from any harm. Any magical harm, that is."

Hermione bit the insides of her lip, the guilt gnawing at her.

"A week or two later, the rumors died down. Kingsley told me that he had gone back and focused on his work." Minerva picked up her tea again, holding it in front of her, taking quiet sips.

For several minutes, they sat in silence, ruminating on the ghosts of the pasts.

Finally, Hermione plucked the courage to say, "Thank you, Minerva. Not just for being my Secret Keeper but for giving him peace of mind."

Minerva nodded, and the two of them sat in companionable silence for some time, the only sound the crackling of the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

Walking through Hogsmeade after a decade-long absence was a bit like walking through a dream. In broad strokes, the village looked the same—snow-topped cottages and picturesque little shops that lined the main street—but the details felt wrong.

Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop remained a popular destination for teenagers. A quick peek through the windows showed young couples holding hands and gazing into each others’ eyes. The shop itself had shed its frilly nonsense; gone were the flying cherubs and random puffs of pink confetti that rained down from the ceiling. Instead, Scandinavian simplicity was the style of choice. Briefly, Hermione wondered whether Madam Puddifoot had ever ventured into “big box” Muggle stores to source furnishings for her improved taste.

Zonko’s window display was still breaming with loud toys and colorful packages; except it was no longer Zonko’s. Above the door hung “WWW2”. Hermione flushed with pride, reminding herself to congratulation Ron and George for their continued success. 

Besides the joke shop, there was the gray awning of Tomes and Scrolls; upon closer inspection, she found that it, too, was no longer what it was. 

There were shelves that still lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and each row was filled with books of all colors and sizes. But the sign above the door said "Muggle Books and Artifacts", and upon closer inspection, she could see that everything inside was a Muggle contraption, and the books that filled the shelves were all titles she had read in the last several years. 

More importantly, there were people inside the shop. It was positively filled, and there was hardly any room for them to maneuver around.

Hermione was awed that so many magical people held such awe—even reverence—for these Muggle items. If her memory served her, many people during her time in the wizarding world were either disinterested in such things or held a mild contempt for them as being inferior to wizard contraptions.

As she was gazing into the window, a figure inside the shop stepped into her line of vision and waved. When she glanced at it, she realized that it was Seamus Finnegan, who looked ecstatic to see her.

She smiled and waved back, and he held out his palms, indicating for her to wait.

A few seconds later, the door dinged open, and a second after that, she was swept into a big hug.

"Hermione!" Seamus all but yelled into her ear.

She fought to kept the wince off her face, her ear ringing. "Hello, Seamus," she said, more subdued than her surprised companion.

He put her down, still smiling his bright smile. "I heard you were back, but I didn't believe it."

She arched an eyebrow. "Ron told you?"

He laughed with careless abandon. "No. I read it in the Daily Prophet a couple days ago. There was a picture of you and Ron and everything. Said you two were secretly dating." He angled his head inquisitively. "You two aren't really dating, are you?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Didn't think so." Seamus chuckled. "So what are you doing back if you haven't been secretly shagging Ron?"

Hermione glanced up and down the street. If there were any eavesdroppers...well, the news of her upcoming nuptials were less far-fetched than anything the Daily Prophet could create. She held up her left hand, the diamond glittering in the sunlight.

Seamus' eyes widened. "Oh," he murmured, understanding dawning on his face. "I see. Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

Hermione smiled tightly. "Thank you."

Seamus gave her a nervous laugh. "You know, when I had come out here just now, I had thought..." He trailed off. "Well, it might no be a good idea..."

"What?"

"It's just, well. I work at the Ministry now, you see—"

"Oh!"

"—and there's an annual Ministry celebration tonight. The wife can't go—hard for her to walk, what with carrying twins and all—"

"You're married? Congratulations to you."

"Thanks." He blushed. "Married a Muggle. We live just streets away, and, I swear, the longer she is pregnant, the more nostalgic she gets about the things she 'gave up just so she could be confined to bed in a strange land.'" He drew quotation marks in the air.

"She sounds lovely."

He gave her a smitten smile. "She is." He held up a bag brimming with books. "I bought here these as a peace offering. Are they any good?"

Hermione peeked inside the bag, finding leather-bound copies of Alice in Wonderland and Northanger Abbey. "If she likes these, then she must have good taste."

Seamus smiled smugly. "I already know she has great taste. But, anyway, with her off her feet, I don't have anyone to take to this Ministry function."

Hermione scrunched her nose. "Is your wife going to be okay with me going with you?"

Seamus waved her away. "She hasn't been able to stand me for more than ten minutes at a time. Last week, she tried to pawn me off to Madam Rosmerta." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But we should probably ask her permission, anyway. Care for some tea? The house isn't far."

Hermione nodded, and in the few minutes' walk, they chatted.

* * *

Seamus, it turned out, had been completely right on both counts. His wife Veronica was a lovely woman; and she also could not stand the sight of him for longer than a few minutes at a time.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, resting the teacup and saucer on top of her large belly as she ate a biscuit. "I love him. I do. But, then I look down, and instead of feet, I see this ginormous mound." She leaned closer, the teacup teetering dangerously on the precipice of her belly. "I haven't seen my feet in eight weeks, Hermione. Eight bloody weeks."

"They're still as adorable as ever," Seamus said with a bright smile. 

"Shut up," his wife replied.

Seamus simply shrugged.

Veronica sighed deeply. "Sorry," she mumbled, caressing her belly.

"Don't apologize," Seamus said. "It's apparently something that runs in the family," Seamus said to Hermione, who was feeling a bit off in this awkward situation. "It's something that happens to all Finnegan wives when they're pregnant. My grandpa called it 'being cursed with wee devil.'" Seamus shrugged. "Da said she'll be right as rain again as soon the babies are born."

"Bloody wonderful," Veronica muttered. "Only six more weeks of my life when I hate the sight of your stupid face."

Seamus gave his wife an air kiss.

Hermione cleared her throat. "So, Veronica, are you sure it's fine with you that I accompany Seamus to the Ministry dinner tonight?"

Veronica snorted. "Please, be my guest. Feel free to not bring him back until the babies have been weaned."

Seamus smiled beatifically. “Love you too, Vivi.”

* * *

The Ministry building held no more traces of those dark days they had endured when they were children, and Hermione was not at all surprised. Not when Harry was at the helm.

She and Seamus arrived at the dinner, which was held at one of the ballrooms housed within the official-looking building.

“It’s where all the main events are held in the Ministry,” Seamus explained as they walked through the atrium and was greeted by a friendly blonde with a bright smile.

“Names?” she asked.

“Seamus Finnegan.”

She checked the list in front of her. “Here you are, Mr. Finnegan,” she said brightly, putting a check mark next to his name. The young woman trained her blue gaze on Hermione. “And your name?”

“Hermione Po—” She cleared her throat. “Granger. Hermione Granger.”

The blonde glanced through her pages once—twice—her smile slowly melting off her face. “You’re not on my list.”

“She’s my guest,” Seamus explained.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid if her name is not on the list, she’s not allowed to go inside. It’s a matter of security—”

“It’s alright, Margaret.” The voice behind them was familiar and not—for while it had Harry’s friendly timbre, there was an air of authority behind it that Hermione had never heard before. “She can come in.”

Margaret nodded. 

Hermione turned to Harry. "Thank you," she said.

Harry had already faced away from her, giving Seamus a sharp look before heading into the main hall.

She took a few moments, taking a deep breath.

"All right there, Hermione?" Seamus asked.

She nodded, and together, they stepped through the double doors.

* * *

It was a much swanker event than she had been expecting for a Ministry party. All the women wore dazzling dresses in colorful hues, and for a moment, she regretted that she had only brought her black evening dress with a simple silhouette and not a single flounce. She had not bothered to alter it in any way, as she had expected everyone to be dressed in severe Ministry uniform or drabby office clothes. 

While that took her by surprise, she was also greeted with something that had not changed since she'd been gone: Harry Potter being the center of attention.

Hermione supposed that he had never been able to change that aspect of his life. In their corner of the universe, Harry Potter had been famous since he was a baby; and now that he was the leader of their people, it cemented his legacy in their history thrice over.

At least now he finally looked comfortable in the spotlight, she surmised. His stance was at ease, and his smile the usual, charming lopsided one she had loved since youth. A half dozen people circled him, and as he spoke, they leaned closer, an eager congregation.

Beside her, Seamus was standing on the balls of his feet, scanning the crowd. When he found the people he was looking for, he gave them a big wave. “Be back in a mo’,” he said before leaving her standing on her own.

The music had shifted to slow waltz, and the dance floor thinned out. As she stood by herself, Hermione noticed people glancing at her surreptitiously. She could postulate what they were thinking; what kinds of rumors they had believed, aided by sensational articles the Prophet had written about her in the last few days.

_They’re already talking about me_, she thought as she squared her shoulders. She zoned in on Harry. _Might as well give them a show._

Bravely, she crossed the room. When they saw her approach, the crowd parted. As she reached Harry, she held out her hand. “Hi, Harry. May I have this dance?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, first at her proffered hand, then at her face, which she fixed in what she hoped was a friendly expression rather than the deep wince she was feeling internally.

The crowd hushed, waiting for his answer. Waiting, perhaps, to take their cue from him on how they were to treat her for the rest of the evening.

An excruciatingly long moment later, he nodded, walking into the center of the dance floor. Hermione followed him close behind. When they reached the middle, he placed one hand near the middle of her back, holding the other one in the air.

She stepped into his hold, and they easily fell in step to the rhythm.

A few beats in, she smiled to herself.

“What?” Harry whispered in the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve had a lot of practice since the last time we danced. You haven’t stepped on my toes once.”

Harry snorted. “I believe the last time we had danced, it was _my_ toes that had sustained the most damage. I hadn’t realized, until that night, that there were still things in this world that you haven’t mastered.”

Hermione scoffed. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told that I’m the greatest witch of our age.”

“By, like, one person, Hermione.” He rolled his eyes.

“By an esteemed professor at the most prestigious magical school in the country!”

“By an _uncertified_ teacher in his_ first_ year of teaching at the _only_ magical school in the country,” Harry retorted, and then cleared his throat. “May he rest in peace.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Hermione’s lips. It was a topic they often joked about, and it was relatively easy falling back into the script even after all these years.

Harry was beginning to smile back when the music abruptly ended and a _ Sonorus _-powered voice broke through the crowd. “Excuse me! Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

Harry stepped away from her, his arms falling at his sides as he turned towards the stage.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Milton,” Harry said, not clarifying whether that was the man’s first name or his last. “Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

“Thank you for joining us tonight for our annual Minister Day celebration,” Milton announced.

The crowd broke out into a cheer. Beside her, Harry shifted his feet.

Milton paced the dais, looking over the crowd. “We as a government observe many important days throughout the year. Many of us wish we had more so we could take a few extra days off work—”

The audience laughed politely.

“We dedicate many days to many important people and events that occurred in our shared history,” Milton went on, “but none more relevant to this day and age than Minister Day.” His gaze fell on Harry. “A day to honor our Minister for Magic, Mr. Potter.”

Applause reached them in waves.

Milton raised a hand to quiet them down. “Amateur historians in this room may have studied the years considered to be the Golden Age of our government. The days of Crowdy, when we had social stability while our Muggle counterparts did not. Or perhaps even the days of Eldritch Diggory, when our economy was at its strongest.

Those, my friends, were very much our golden years. But ever since Harry Potter became our Minister for Magic—”

Again, the crowd cheered, and Milton waitied a moment for them to calm down.

“Our people have not experienced such peace in modern history. It was the end of political instability. With his guidance, Muggle-relations has never sailed more smoothly. Inequality between Pureblood and Halfblood and Muggleborns are virtually non-existent. Our economy has never been stronger.

This, my colleagues and friends, are all directly related to our Minister for Magic and everything he has done for our people. A century from now, historians will look back and label this as yet another golden age in our history.

But they will be wrong. It is _not_ just another golden age. We are in the Age of Potter.”

The crowd burst into applause. Those who had taken seats at the tables along the perimeter of the room jumped to their feet.

Still standing in the middle of the dance floor, Harry raised a hand, giving the crowd a polite wave, seemingly unfazed by the adoration being thrown his way.

After a few final words, Milton stepped off the dais, and the music, once again, resumed. Harry, who had been shaking the hands of those standing near who had approached him, fixed her with a guarded gaze.

Hermione had no idea what to say; and Harry, it seemed, could only stare wordlessly back at her.

Fortunately, they were saved by a handful of people led by Seamus, who casually threw an arm over Harry’s shoulder like they were back in the Gryffindor common room. “Age of Potter!” He laughed, mocking a punch into Harry’s side. “What a glorious time we live in!”

The people now surrounding them laughed, and it was then Hermione realized that the new crowd was made up of friends and acquiantances of varying degrees. There were former Gryffindors she had been friends with growing up—Alicia Spinnet, Dennis Creevey, and Lee Jordan—and people she had known in passing who were from other houses. While the former group greeted her with unabashed friendliness, the latter members glanced between her and Harry, unsure how to treat their Minister for Magic’s estranged wife.

“Here ya go, Harry,” Seamus continued, pulling out a flask from his modest dress robes and handing it over to Harry. “Let’s toast to your health, O-Giant-Among-Men.” Seamus waggled his eyebrows.

Harry rolled his eyes, taking the flask from Seamus’ hand. He raised the flask, quirking his eyebrow at Hermione in challenge. “Cheers.”

* * *

However she had been expecting the night to turn, her wildest expectations could not even begin to come close to reality. She found herself where she had never thought she would be again: gracing the halls of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

After Seamus and his gang came, they had plied both her and Harry with drinks...both from the Ministry-provided weak alcohol, and the stronger stuff that Seamus had snuck in with his illegally-enlarged flask.

Seamus himself could not recall just how many bottles of Ogden’s Finest he was able to pour into the flask before it topped off. As a result, they were well inebrieted by the time the official Ministry function had ended.

As drinks were generously shared, both Harry and Hermione loosened up and became friendlier. Not to each other, naturally, but they were friendly _around _ each other. 

When Seamus had suggested they take the party to the Minster’s house, the Great Harry Potter, completely sloshed, agreed; and the Idiot Hermione Potter nee Granger, also too many drinks in, had decided to tag along.

For what seemed like hours, the group tore through Grimmauld Place’s stash of alcohol. At first, they played music, and danced around as a group, to each their own different rhythm. Towards the latter part of the night, they sat on the furry rugs in front of the fireplace, reminiscing about old times.

Hermione kept to the outskirts of the group during this time, only offering a polite smile whenever she was called on.

As the night grew long, the guests trickled out, until, at last, Hermione found herself sitting in the second-floor living room of Grimmauld Place alone with Harry.

She sat still, breathing shallow breaths, waiting for Harry to notice that she had not yet gone. Waiting for the moment he would inevitably remember what she was to him, and more importantly, what she was not.

After a few silent moments, there was nothing. Harry continued to sit facing the fireplace, the yellow glow of the fire bathing him as he drank a glass of scotch. Hermione sat in the armchair behind him, wondering if the shadows had concealed her enough that she was invisible.

Another minute longer, and that was debunked.

“You kept my name,” he said, his voice rough, like they were raking over hot coals.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

“At the Ministry, you gave your name. You almost said ‘Hermione Potter’ like it was a slip of the tongue. As if it was something you said on a regular basis.”

Hermione cleared her suddenly parched throat. She wished she had not emptied the crystal tumbler in her hand several minutes ago.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“What?” she asked numbly.

Harry angled his head, not quite looking at her. “Why did you keep my name?”

“It was...easier that way,” she murmured. “Hermione Granger doesn’t exist. Never existed. Because Wendell and Monica Granger had never had her.” She rubbed her temples. “I suppose it was easier for me to build Hermione Potter from scratch rather than trying to edit Hermione Granger’s reality.”

Harry chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m glad I was still of use to you in some way.”

She glared at him. “That’s not fair.”

This time, he faced her squarely, green eyes dark as they burrowed into hers. “Let’s not fight about fairness, Hermione. I think we both know I’m going to win.” He set his tumbler down on beside him on the carpet, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his crossed legs.

For what felt like an eternity, they sat in silence.

“Tell me about him,” he said suddenly, tone devoid of any emotion.

She could only glance at him. He was, once again, facing the fire, giving her a great view of his sharp profile. He was fidgeting with his ring finger, as though he could still feel the ghost of his wedding band.

“Tell me about him,” he repeated. “What is his name?”

“Andrew,” she whispered, and then, more clearly, “Andrew Whitney.”

Harry nodded slowly as he stared into the fire.

“He’s a doctor in Berret.”

“You two live together?” he asked, although without the inflection, as if he already knew the answer.

Hermione nodded, before remembering that he could not see what she was doing. “Yes. We have a house in Berret Village.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know you’re a witch?”

Hermione parted her lips before quickly closing them.

“He doesn’t know,” Harry said simply.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice getting defensive. “I haven’t lived as a witch for a long time. Before I came back here, I had not used my wand for years. And when I get what I want, I might as well snap my wand for all the good it will do for me.” Somewhere deep inside her, guilt tried to rise, but she swallowed it down.

“You’re a witch,” Harry said. “No matter if you live in the Muggle world for the rest of your life. No matter if you never pick up your wand or do a simple _Alohomora_ ever again, you will always be a witch, Hermione.”

His words resonated with her, ringing true.

“You want a divorce from me.”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

He stood up from his position on the floor and walked to her. He stopped a few feet away. He loomed over her as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. His back was now against the light, throwing shadows across his face, making them even more unreadable. “I’ll sign the divorce papers.”

Her eyes widened.

“In one condition,” he said. “You have to tell Andrew you’re a witch, and you have to bring him here into our world.”

“What?” She jumped up, her tumbler knocking to the ground. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet. “Break the Institute of Secrecy? Are you mad?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “You’ll be married to him one day,” he said. “You’re allowed to tell your future spouse about your status as a witch. And, even with that, if you’re still afraid you’re going to be in trouble, don’t worry.” He leaned down so that they were nearly eye to eye. “I know someone who could pardon you.”

Hermione scoffed. “Are you bloody serious, Harry Potter? You’re saying that if I tell my fiance that I’m a witch, you will finally set me free?”

Harry winced, but he quickly recovered. “It’s a deal.”


	4. Chapter 4

When she had dropped the first news on Andrew—that she was a witch—it only took her doing a few simple spells for him to believe her.

From there, she had taken him to the Leaky Cauldron, where he gazed around curiously at the inhabitants. They walked through the narrow streets of Diagon Alley. Andrew took it all in wordlessly, wonder and excitement flashing over his expression every time he encountered something new.

It was not until he came upon a copy of the Daily Prophet, which covered the celebration of Minister Day on the front page.

“'_Ministry Celebrates Mr. Harry Potter_,'” Andrew read the headline. He glanced up at her curiously. “Harry _Potter_? Any relation?”

Hermione winced. “Do you remember when I said I had _ two _ secrets to tell you?”

* * *

  


It was natural for Andrew to take some time to think things over after everything she had told him. She gave him his space, promising that he could have the cottage in Berret to himself while he sorted through his thoughts.

This, of course, meant that she was extending her stay at Hogsmeade. Minerva was all too willing to let Hermione use the family cottage for as long as she liked.

As the days passed, Hermione found herself falling into a routine in the picturesque village. Mornings were spent trying to revive the winter garden that grew along the footpath from the gate to the steps. Minerva said they once held the most glorious bed of daisies that were impervious to the permanent winter of Hogsmeade Village. Hermione searched through the family’s modest library, pouring through botanical books.

Mid-day, she spent walking through the village itself. She would spend hours upon hours in different shops. Some shops, of course, longer than others. She hardly ever found herself in the Quidditch supply store. Surprisingly, she never had much of a craving to go into the Muggle shop, either. Despite spending so much of her adult life living as a Muggle, she found that she did not miss it as she ought to.

There were days, however, when she would go in to pick up a trinket or a book for Veronica, with whom she had spent many an afternoon. The soon-to-be mother of twins was unfortunately confined to bed for a few weeks more, and while she craved conversation, she could not yet stand the company of her husband.

Seamus was forever grateful that Hermione could provide his wife some decent companionship.

At times, she poked into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes at Hogsmeade or at Diagon Alley. She caught up with Ron whenever she could, although it was less frequently with the other Weasleys.

She had not seen Harry since Minister Day. The day she came home from speaking with Andrew, she had sent a note to Grimmauld Place via Owl.

_ “It’s done.” _

She had not yet received a response; she could not decide how to feel about it.

* * *

  


The wind nearly blew Hermione through the doorway at Hog’s Head. The door clattered behind her, and she shook off the snow that coated her hair. When she was through, only then did she notice that the pub was eerily quiet.

Through a curtain of damp hair, she noticed a group of folks sitting in a half-circle at one end of the pub. They stared at her wordlessly, some with amusement and others with slight irritation. Sitting amongst them was Harry, whose face was tiresomely unreadable.

Hermione glanced at the faces staring her down, recognizing them to be the owners of the businesses in Hogsmeade.

Her gaze landed on Madame Rosmerta.

“Business meeting,” Madame Rosmerta mouthed.

“Sorry,” Hermione whispered. She slinked into a booth behind a pillar, hoping that their attention will soon be off her.

Moments later, the meeting resumed. Hermione stared at the whorls of wood on the surface of the table, trying very hard not to eavesdrop. But their voices carried over the otherwise quiet pub. The business owners were informing the Minister for Magic about the needs and wants of their little economy with relative ease, as if these kinds of meetings were a regular occurrence.

Harry’s voice was the clearest, and with every advice he doled and every decision he made, Hermione grew impressed.

The Harry she had married was temperamental and quick to act on the basis of his feelings. The Harry before her now—the Minister for Magic—seemed sage and level-headed, advocating for caution rather than action.

Just how much had changed since she had been gone?

Their proficient meeting soon ended. Chairs scraped across the wooden floor, and within minutes, the business owners filed out of the pub save for Madam Rosmerta, who went through a door towards the back, presumably to file things away in her office.

Harry put on his cloak and gathered his belongings. He marched to the door, intent on ignoring her presence.

Hermione knew that if she passed on the opportunity, she might not get another chance to speak to him in person. “Harry,” she called out.

He froze, the hand reaching for the doorknob hanging in the air. Still, he did not look at her.

Slowly, she got up from her seat. As she made her way towards him, she wracked her brain for something to say that would not send him bolting out the door.

“Have you signed the divorce papers?” was too direct and would surely earn her a snarl before he Disapparated in place.

“How have you been?” sounded too disingenuous, and “Good meeting,” was too banal.

The closer she got to him, the more Harry’s expression hardened, and there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Anything shecould say would be deemed unwelcome.

Anything _ she _ would say.

So, in the last moment, she parted her lips and relied on the words that were ingrained in all Weasleys: “Are you hungry?”

* * *

Sitting down with Harry for tea was strange enough; sitting across from him at a stripped-down version of Madam Puddifoot’s was stranger than any dream she had had for years.

They had been sitting drinking their tea and eating the finger sandwiches with as little conversation as possible. Their silence was made even more strange by the fact that they were surrounded by tables of teenagers on dates, who were too enamored with their companion to care that they were sitting among a legend of their time and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

For the first time ever, Hermione thanked the gods that teenagers were the most self-absorbed creatures on the planet.

When their tea was cleared away, they had no further excuses to defer conversation. 

Hermione glanced at Harry’s ever-stoic face. “I did it, you know.”

Harry nodded once. “I got your Owl.”

“Oh.” Her gaze fell to the table. “I suppose the return Owl must be on its way.”

Harry sighed, planting his elbows on the table and folding his hands in front of him. His right thumb and forefinger rubbed the ring finger of his left hand. A nervous tick, she had since surmised.

Today, however, was the first time she had been so close to him and had enough mental fortitude to be observant—and what she saw surprised her.

There was a strip of skin at the base of his ring finger that was paler than the rest. It was a tan line caused by wearing a ring.

She knew this because she had sported the same awkward line when she had first taken off her wedding band. It did not disappear until a couple of weeks afterward.

Perhaps the epiphany changed her expression; maybe she had simply been staring too long. But Harry quickly covered his hand, clearing his throat.

“Harry?” she asked, even though she had no idea what, exactly, she was asking.

He was saved by Madam Puddifoot herself, who bustled over to them with a healthy slice of chocolate cake. She set it down in front of Harry.

“Here you are, Minister Potter. On the house, of course!”

Harry gave her a polite smile. “This is too much, Madam.”

She shook her head jovially. “Not at all! It’s the very least I could give you for everything you do for our community.” She waltzed away, weaving through the narrow spaces between the tables.

Hermione glanced at the slice of cake, chuckling to herself. “You know, when I first heard that you were the Minister for Magic, I almost choked on my food.”

A reluctant smile formed on Harry’s lips. “I bet.”

“It’s a path I certainly never expected you to take. Although, after hearing about your work and seeing you at your meeting today...I’m a bit ashamed I’d never given it a second thought.” She shook her head. “Why did you decide to become Minister for Magic? I thought you were happy as an Auror.”

His smile froze. “Do you want the real answer? Or the one I tell the Daily Prophet?”

The warning in his tone made her pause; but, she knew that she would never have forgiven herself if she did not seek the truth. “The real answer. Please.”

His gaze fell to his hands, and for a moment, Hermione was afraid he would not answer after all. 

Then he glanced back up, and for the first time since she saw him again, there was an openness to his expression. “It was the reason why I did a lot of things in my life. Because of you.”

Waves of hot and cold went through her.

“For a long time after you left, I had a terrible amount of guilt. I was aware of what you were going through after the battle at Hogwarts. I felt the same way, but I dealt with it the only way I knew how—to go from mission to mission, ridding the world of what was left of the evil that Tom Riddle had fostered. You, on the other hand…” He cleared his throat; he rubbed his brow, as if recalling the past made his scar ache. “I knew the weight of that last year was too much for you. And the attention you were getting from marrying me was so detrimental to you.

“I knew you were drowning, but I didn’t know how--” He stared into her eyes, the anguish in them evident. “I could save anyone. I had the means and the power to save absolutely anyone, but when it came to you, I felt so…” He shook his head. “Helpless.”

Hermione’s hand wrapped around the base of her neck; it was the only thing she could do to keep from reaching for him. Because, finally, for the first time in years, she saw him—

Not Harry the Minister for Magic. 

Not Harry the Savior.

Not even Harry her husband.

Harry, her best friend. The one who she spent the entirety of her teenage years saving and being saved by in return. The one for whom she gave up her family. The one who she was willing not just to die for, but to suffer for.

The one she fell in love with. The kind of love that surpassed anything she had ever felt—even now, with another man’s ring on her finger.

“When you left,” Harry said, “it was my most devastating defeat. I couldn’t save you; couldn’t fix you.”

“That wasn’t your job,” she said. “You already had a lot of responsibilities on your shoulders. And there was a spotlight on you wherever you went, and it—” She glanced away. “I needed to heal from everything that had happened. The people I’d hurt and maimed and killed during that battle. For the torture I endured at Bellatrix’s hand.” She shifted her gaze to him again, although it was hard to make out his face through the tears in her eyes. “I needed to heal, but I was withering under your spotlight. But it wasn’t your fault, Harry. I wish I had told you that before I left.” 

“I wish you had said goodbye,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “That was tough for me. Eventually—with Ron and Ginny and Dean and everyone else who helped me get through that first year—I told myself that if I couldn’t spend the rest of my life trying to save you, then I’ll dedicate it saving everyone else. The thing is—” He grinned wryly. “As an Auror, my reach was fairly short. So I decided to have a political career to make the most impact.”

“And now you’ve rebuilt this community—this entire country’s society—to this almost-paradise.”

“There’s an operative word in there,” Harry muttered.

As much as she tried to ignore it, his words seeded something akin to hope in her heart.

* * *

  


Andrew had penned her a letter asking her to go to the cottage. She arrived a half hour later, finding him sitting in the living room, waiting for her. He was startled when she popped into the house, but he recovered quickly, jumping up and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome home,” he said.

“Hi.”

He pulled her to the couch, and they both sat down—Hermione doing so gingerly at the edge of her seat, Andrew slightly crowding her.

“First of all, I want to say thank you for coming clean with me about your...secret life,” Andrew said. “It can’t have been easy.”

Hermione shook her head.

“Hermione—” He took her hand. “This doesn’t change the fact that I still want to marry you. I don’t care if you used to have a past—we all have a past—but what matters now is that you’ve changed, and it’s no longer a part of your life. We can continue building our new life here, together."

She angled her head. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that your past is in the past. The point is, we no longer have to worry about any of that. We should just focus on the life we want to build here.”

“Are you saying that you still want to get married,” she said carefully, “but you never want me to have anything to do with magic ever again?”

“...Yes.” He raised his palms. “I’m just— I’m not comfortable with your— erm, spells? Coven?”

“What?”

“Your powers,” he said. “I don’t know where they come from. How do you get your powers? Did your people get it from,”—he leaned in, whispering—”devil worship?”

“For Merlin’s sake!” She pushed him away.

“See!” Andrew exclaimed. “You said Merlin instead of God! I mean, that’s at the very least, some form of heresy.”

“You’re hardly a man of God. You only go to service on Christmas! And it’s not as if we’re some sort of demon worshippers.”

“Regardless,” Andrew said. “I just… If we’re to move forward with our relationship, I need you to make me a promise that you’ll never go back to that place again. I need you to renounce your magic and promise to never do a single spell again.”

Hermione paused. It was essentially the same promise she had made to herself all those years ago. But after the brief time she had spent back in her old world, she didn’t know if she had the strength to sever ties once and for all.

Her wand, tucked inside her jacket, rested against her heart. Already, she could feel the tenuous trust she had been rebuilding with it start to fray.

“So, you’re saying,” Hermione said, “that you still want to spend the rest of your life with me, provided that during that the entire time, I could never be a witch?”

Andrew nodded.

* * *

  


When she arrived back at the McGonagall cottage, it was with a strangely lightened load on her shoulders.

It all came crashing down, of course, when she noticed the roll of parchment attached to a snowy Owl.

* * *

  


“Harry Potter!” she screamed into the cold air. “Harry Potter, let me in!”

Hermione had been yelling at the top of her lungs for the past few minutes; the neighborhood was up in arms over the disturbance. In the distance was the sound of police sirens.

Still, she continued. “Harry Potter, let me in!”

Finally, Number 12 revealed itself, and an irritated Harry jumped outside. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, putting a subtle concealment charm on both of them before hurrying her into the house. Within the safety of its walls, Harry lowered his magic and gave were a withering glare. “What do you want?”

She held up the parchment rolled tightly in her hand. “What the hell is this?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s the thing that you wanted,” he said. “Your freedom from me. Congratulations. Now get out.” He stalked past her, brushing roughly against her shoulder.

She turned around and followed him close to his heels all the way to the kitchen. “But...why?”

He pivoted. “Isn’t this why you were here the entire time? Weren’t you the one who kept pushing for this divorce?” He stepped into her personal space, staring her down until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “What’s the matter, Hermione? Isn’t this what you wanted all along?”

“No!— Yes—I don’t know!”

He laughed dryly. “Indecisiveness doesn’t suit you.”

She growled. “This is your fault, you know!”

“Really?”

“Before I came here, I was fine with my life. I had a decent partner and lived in a decent house in a decent village. I had a nice, quiet life.” She paced a few steps back and forth, pulling at the ends of her curls. “And then you forced me back in here, in the insanity of this world.” She laughed wryly. “And all the magic. And the people. And the promise that it held even through the darkest times, the promise that you had a hand in fulfilling.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “I’ve missed it, Harry. I hadn’t realized that I missed it until you made me remember.”

There were no changes to his posture, but there was a shift in tension behind his eyes. “Does that mean you’re staying?” he asked.

She laughed involuntarily. “Yes. I can’t imagine leaving this world ever again.” She took a careful step towards him. “I can’t imagine not having you in my life ever again.”

Harry shook his head. “My life is a bigger circus than it was when you left.”

“It is.”

“The spotlight is stronger than it has ever been. And there’s no off switch.”

“I know.”

“And you hurt me, Hermione,” he said, his voice now trembling. “You really, _ really _ hurt me.”

She reached out for him, her fingers stopping a centimeter away from his touch. “I know that, too.”

He didn’t move towards her; but he also didn’t move away. 

Like Crookshanks—

Like her wand—

There was an implicit trust in her relationship with Harry, and she had broken it by leaving, and she had damaged it further by staying away.

But she vowed, divorce or no, to do whatever it took to mend it. No matter how long; no matter how much the effort.

Her time away had allowed her to heal; and now she had the mental and emotional fortitude to deal with the insanity of this magical world. To return to the place where she knew she belonged.

To come home.

“I’m here, Harry,” she said, closing the distance between them. Tentatively, she wrapped her arms around him, and he did the same to her. Little by little, they folded into each other until it felt like they were one. “I’m here.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos/Comments are appreciated!


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